Survival Mode

I wake up and first thing I do is say:

I love and accept myself

Then I proceed to do 40 pushups and my daily 15 minute abs sequence.
I eat breakfast.
I go to bed kinda hungry.  I am fear-full: a fucked up phobia of satiation.
I want to wake up hungry, at exactly 5AM.
And I’m good at it, alarmless.
Breakfast takes a long time, regardless of what I eat.
Because I’m famished. I’m in survival mode.

My body is in survival mode.
My soul wants connection, love, to work, give, change, go on dates. But it’s not possible.  I’m stuck confined in the walls I’ve imprisoned myself in.

I don’t even know how much I weigh, because I never step on a scale.  But my bones protrude, I have no bum, my arms are twigs, my nails are falling off.

I eat, until I know I can control some residual hunger.  Control, man.

I want to be in control of when I am hungry.

I am scared of being full.  Of going overboard, of deserving nourishment.

I do my workout, an escape, a numbing, it’s like a pill, solidifying the power of my dictatorship over my body.

I go about my day.  Stretch, lunch (just under-sated), snack (this is new! this is good!), dinner (under-full), ootnaboot (this is new and good!), snack (under-full).  Sleep.

And I am expecting myself to realize a job, career (run retreats and be the holistic wellness advocate of my own damn dreams), find a sexy man, go to a bar, movie, dinner, win some fucking trail races….when I have this crap behind me.  I’m exhausted, cortisol running perma-high in “flight” mode, always.  I have hypothalamic amenorrhea.  Muscles perma tired, always toeing the edge of athletic injury.

I’ve re-started my 10-min meditation practice (literally 10 mins of breath-focused awareness) and this shit’s life-saving.

I want to DO things but have no energy.  And I expect myself to do it all.

In order to jump off the rat-wheel, I have to fucking leap.

Shit, man.  The mind is a powerful ape.

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I tried to walk away with this big cheque…doesn’t work that way, apparently…